


every night my teeth are falling out

by goodboots



Series: Burst Apart [2]
Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: Abbie is semi-possessed by Moloch, Because of Reasons, Captain Irving is not as skeptical as he wants to believe, F/M, Father McLean is the religious man turned demon hunter, Gen, Jenny breaks out of the psych hospital and wants to break back in, Maggie is the one who gave Ichabod the energy drinks if you like, Moloch is playing a long game, Sorry Not Sorry, also there are original characters, and Ichabod has had about enough of this Witness business, she's sassy as hell, some of this doesn't jive with canon, written mostly pre Sin Eater
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-11
Updated: 2013-11-11
Packaged: 2017-12-31 20:36:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1036104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goodboots/pseuds/goodboots
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The witches have all left Sleepy Hollow, except for the one in the asylum.</p>
            </blockquote>





	every night my teeth are falling out

**Author's Note:**

> One bad night I’ll hear you calling me to help you not pass out.  
> You and I, divine but not devout,  
> Every night my teeth are falling out. 
> 
> — The Antlers, "Every Night My Teeth Are Falling Out"

"Day one thousand, six hundred and thirty-six," Lieutenant Abbie Mills says, climbing into her squad car and passing him a take-away cup of coffee.

Ichabod forces his eyes open. He'd been trying to doze in the passenger seat to no avail. "Must you keep count?"

He doesn't intend to sound irritable. Abbie Mills' attitude toward their combined role in the apocalypse varies wildly between enthusiastic and reticent. He should not discourage her sunny demeanor when it surfaces, but today he does. He blames her, since she is the one responsible for coaxing him out of the warmth of his apartment this grim January morning.

It is January 1st, 2018. It is four and a half years since Ichabod Crane awoke in the twenty-first century.

"Come on, Crane, cheer up," she says, reversing the car out of the Starbucks parking lot and onto the Main street. "It's a new day, it's a new year. Time for a fresh outlook."

 _I've about had enough of new years_ , he keeps himself from saying. He is only tired, there's no need for bitterness. Instead he sips at his coffee, cautious of burning his lips, and tries to keep warm.

This morning they are investigating witches.

***

After the first one they encountered together, Serilda of Abbadon, there had been no witches seen in Sleepy Hollow for quite some time. Other manner of supernatural creature, certainly: vengeful spirits, monstrous ghouls, vampires and banshees, cults and secret societies both friendly and antagonistic. 

Ichabod has had more than enough new and interesting situations to occupy his time. He has martialled all his military training and academic fortitude into mastering this world of unbidden terrors. Abbie Mills, lacking eidetic memory and a detailed knowledge of the founding of her country, more than compensates with a full understanding of modern technology. Not to mention her prowess with a fire arm.

She tells him often he is not so far behind her, and he accepts her praise gladly.

He can and will begrudgingly consult a computer where necessary, though he prefers the tablet Abbie has taken to carrying in her shoulder bag. He is equally fond of Wikipedia and its supernaturally-focused offshoot Demonpedia, the latter of which Abbie had initially laughed at before they discovered its uncanny accuracy. He has an email address, courtesy of the automated generator at the Westchester County Police Department. He has checked ichabodcrane@wcpd.com three or four times; he does still not quite understand what a Groupon is supposed to be.

He will possibly one day conquer his anxiety over the idea of operating a motor vehicle, but for now he is content to let Abbie drive the squad car; she maneuvers it excellently, and has seen fit to grant him “permanent shotgun.”

Ichabod Crane's strange new life in the twenty-first century has begun to settle into a routine, and he finds himself amenable to it. He has even become used to the eerie silence of the police station before dawn.

"You two are here early. Another Lieutenant-Professor Special?" Margaret the Administrator greets them without looking up from her computer monitor when they walk toward her desk and the myriad files shelved behind it. She is the only other soul in the police department building on this early morning.

"What kinda special would that be?" Abbie asks.

Margaret laughs. "Hon, I could order it over at Moxie's Diner by now. You two, showing up at the wrong side of sunrise, looking shifty, digging through my files." She taps a crimson fingernail on the metal cabinet nearest her. "Three days or five days or two weeks later, one of you will go missing for a bit, Irving with freak out, and then there'll be a break on some dead-end case the department gave up on years ago." A purposeful nod. "Side of bacon, apple pie for desert."

When speaking with Margaret, Ichabod finds himself reminded of the situational comedies that play in repeat between one and three in the morning on Abbie's television; there is a contrived air of aged wisdom and sarcasm about her, despite her young age. Also her clothes are fascinating; she is the only modern woman he has known to wear a corset in public.

"It's called style, Professor," she’d said when he commented. "And I wouldn't be throwing stones, took you like a year to buy a pair of jeans."

Margaret can be no more than twenty-three or twenty-four years old, yet she takes pleasure in explaining the world to him—or to anyone, really, he has seen her do the same to Abbie and Luke, to Captain Irving even—as if he were an infant. He has learned not to underestimate her. It is no small wonder she has noticed their propensity for appearing near strange phenomena, given her own supposed links to the supernatural. 

"That's some formula you have there," Abbie tells her, voice betraying nothing. Apparently she has not learned. "How did you come up with that one?"

Margaret shrugs. "I play a lot of video games, you get good at seeing the patterns after a while. Bonus points if there's satanic imagery or Redcoat paraphernelia lying around a crime scene."

"C-c-c-combo breaker," Abbie says, in that overly serious way that she adopts when she wants to make a pop-cultural reference he won't understand. He's going to Google that later. "You're half right, we need to dig around in the filing cabinet of wonders."

"How about you tell me what you need and I'll find it for you?"

Ichabod is standing slightly in front of Abbie, but he can feel the way she rolls her eyes at that, and intervenes:

"That would be most helpful, Miss Margaret," he tells her, with what he hopes is a winning smile.

"Uh-huh. Whatcha need?"

Abbie sighs. They were trying to keep this from becoming public knowledge, with good reason. Anything they investigate will be the talk of the deputy bullpen before the day is through. "You got anything on the Sisters Immaculata up near Lake Honor?"

"The _convent?_ " Margaret gapes at them. "Jesus Christ, you make it too easy." She presses the button to illuminate her computer screen, starts typing. "All right, let's see what we've got."

***

What they've got turns out to be very little.

"Gone," Abbie says, disbelieving.

Father McLean nods. "Yes, they've been gone for ages. The final transfer left last week for Buenos Aires."

"No," she shakes her head, "no way."

The convent has recently lost six novices. Abbie is suspicious, and more than a little annoyed. Ichabod feels sympathy; the Carmelites residing by the lake were their last lead. 

"There have been dozens of reports of supernatural activity on these premises over the last decade," Abbie hedges. "You expect me to believe those nuns were just nuns?"

Father McLean frowns. "I do, and ask that you do not bother the sisters here unless the need is dire. They are not willing to be disturbed. Leave them alone, Lieutenant. We have a deal."

"With who?" Ichabod asks, fearing Moloch is the answer.

"Sherriff Corbin, may he rest in peace."

Abbie stops. "Corbin set this up?" and seems so surprised by the explanation of the convent's immunity that when McLean suggest they get back in their squad car and leave the property, they actually do.

They retreat to the archives sometime after noon, grimly determined to reread Corbin's files on anything related to the convent, the priest, Moloch, or witches. It is quite a lot of material, most of it only tangentially relevant; Ichabod can see why they did not start here first.

"What do you need a witch for, anyway?" Officer Donohue asks, shelving his own research and looking at the book over Abbie's shoulder. 

He is one of the few believers on the police force. He saw Andy Brooks try to summon War and Famine, and the incredible lengths Ichabod and Abbie took to prevent that plan from reaching fruition, and has shown an interest in their work ever since. He's not completely alone in his support; they have hardly been subtle. There are still scorch-marks on the walls of the City Hall building, and occasionally schoolchildren shout encouragements or whoops of joy when he or Abbie walk past, but for the most part Sleepy Hollow is happy to turn a blind eye to the terror facing their town.

Abbie rubs her hand along her temple, warding off a headache. "We have a prophecy to untangle. Apparently there's a witch in Sleepy Hollow who will kill the reflective demon."

"Reflective demon," Donohue repeats.

Ichabod clears his throat. "We believe it is a reference to a particular breed of monster, that which resides in mirrors, though we have evidence there are many such individuals." 

"So we're not sure which one yet."  
  
Donohue frowns, says, "Huh. Okay, good luck with that," while looking faintly disturbed, and flees the archives room. 

"I'm out," Abbie announces shortly after his departure. The interruption seems to have disrupted her concentration. "I'm getting a pizza and crashing early. Crane, you in?"

Ichabod shakes his head. "No, thank you, I believe I will work a while longer," and wishes her good evening. Truthfully he is a little grateful for the time alone with his thoughts.

***

Ichabod spends another hour in the archives, then wanders out into the late afternoon air, vaguely determined to spend at least some of this miserable day in the sunlight. He is walking toward home, his feet following the path along the river and onto Main street, when his phone rings in his pocket. 

"Abbie had another episode," Captain Irving announces without preamble.

Ichabod stops walking. Episode is the term people at the police station have come to use for Abbie's condition. Usually it means she fainted and commenced speaking in tongues; occasionally she falls asleep at her desk and proceeds to sleepwalk through the building. It is disconcerting to say the least, when it happens. She has never had an episode without him being present before, and he curses his foolishness at leaving her.

"Is she all right?"

"She's not coming out of it. Maggie and Sergeant Donohue tried to wake her up, didn't work."

He feared that. The demon's hold on her subconscious grows stronger every day, despite their stopgap efforts. She should not have fallen asleep without him nearby.

"She's in the hospital, Westchester Memorial," Captain Irving says without preamble. "You need a ride?"

There will be no time for that. He is still near the waterfront, not far from his home. There is an hotel is just across the street, a line of cars queued up before the valet. He dashes over, pulls open the rear door of the nearest one.

"No, that's fine, I am getting into a cab." He pauses to repeat the name of the hospital to the beleaguered-looking driver. "Captain, is it—"

"You know what it is. Get here fast, Crane."

***

Medical facilities are unnerving, Ichabod finds. Perhaps his opinion has been tainted by that first experience, with Thomas and the Roanoke Colony spirits, but he cannot help finding the cold sterility of the premises makes causes gooseflesh to rise on his arms.

Were Abbie awake, she would tease him, Witness to the Coming Apocalypse, for fearing such harmless things.

Abbie is not awake. She did not awake the day she was admitted, nor the next two.

Ichabod has not set foot in the police station in as many days. He has spent one restless night in his own apartment, fighting the sights on the underside of his eyelids. 

"She's being used as a conduit," Father McLean tells Ichabod. "She'll wake up when the demon wants to let her wake up, or grows tired of holding her under."

Across the room, Captain Irving shakes his head. The man does not believe in their tales as such, does not condone supernatural phenomena as a rule, but has made a useful ally these past months. He believes enough in Abbie that is third phone call, after the ambulance and Ichabod, was to the priest.

Margaret passes him a cup of coffee in a white plastic cup, then distributes one to Father McLean as well. They are also here to visit Abbie, ostensibly. Ichabod fears he is the true target of their visit.

He asks, a little desperately, "What can he mean to accomplish by holding her hostage?" 

She clears her throat. “I would look at it this way: if the two of you are the only two Witnesses, and I’m not convinced that you are, but what do I know?”

McLean says, “Maggie, please, stay on topic.” 

“Okay, okay, right. So you two are joined at the hip, saving the world, side of fries. What do you think that means now he's trying to split you up?”

Ah. 

"You imagine this is a ploy, then. Her continued sleep is an attempt to separate us from each other? To—to prevent us fulfilling our roles?"

Margaret stares at him. "Well, _yeah_. I kind of figured you got that already. Duh."

***

Let it never be said that Ichabod Crane is not a man of divisive action. 

"Jenny Mills, I ask your favour in the pursuit of rescuing your own sister from demons you cannot imagine."

Seated on her bed in an upper floor of the asylum she has been housed in for the last five years, Jennifer Mills considers his proposal.

"Try me."

She is not easily swayed to his cause; she has good reason to fear the world outside these walls, and it will take a good deal of persuasion to lure her back out. He describes, as best he can, the sort of terrors that plague the Lieutenant. It is a difficult task, as he has not stopped to ask himself precisely what hell Abbie is living. .

Ichabod tells Jenny Mills as much as he can muster about Abbie's possession, and when he has finished speaking, she rises from her cot, spine straight, head held high.

"I'll drive."

***

"Abbie," Ichabod says over her bedside, cautiously. She has been unconscious for five days now, and only started to come back to herself when the nurses raised the blinds this morning, letting sunlight drift into the room. He feels as if he has been sitting in this chair for ages.

"What," she says, groggy. Then, blinking rapidly and trying to rise off her nest of pillows: "Crane? What's going on? I feel like shit."

"You fainted and fell against the filing cabinet in the archives, you have a head injury. You are in an infirmary—"

"Hospital," Jenny corrects from across the room.

"Hospital," he allows.

Abbie's eyebrows rise halfway up her forehead; she leans forward too quickly, winces, and he stands up and braces an arm over her chest, encouraging her to lie back. 

"You can't be here," she hisses at Jenny. "Are you crazy? What the fuck are you doing here?"

This is no last-minute furlough to save a life, and Jenny has no intention of returning to remanded psychiatric care. Underneath the ridiculous red wig she purchased as a last-minute disguise, she grins. "Don't sweat it."

"Abbie," Ichabod starts, in what he hopes is a patient tone.

"No, no, don't even," she warns him off, then twists her attention back over to Jenny on her other side, "you can't be here, are you actually insane? Who got you out—"

Jenny shrugs. "Your boy Professor Crane and his merry band of nuns. This isn't a jail break, I'm not going back in there. He got me a fake ID and everything."

Abbie looks over at him, eyebrows raised.

"You didn't."

Well, the convent had only been too glad to help, and Jenny had been quite amenable to the idea of ducking out of the asylum dressed as a novice. He was sure Abbie would appreciate the story when she was recovered.

"I can hardly see it as a cause for concern. The Sisters were delighted to help in the fight against the apocalypse, and I have retrieved the one person who knows more about demonic exorcism than either of us."

This is mostly accurate. The Sisters Immaculata were indeed pleased to assist himself and Jenny, though he might have left out the aspects of the story wherein Jenny herself had spent some time investigating the influence of dark powers. Frankly, it was that information that prompted him and Father McLean to consider her a necessary part of their plan to cure Abbie. 

"Hold up. Exorcism?"

"Don't freak out, Sis," Jenny says cheerfully. "But you're kind of possessed right now."

Ichabod cringes. They had agreed not to use that word.

 ***

"A conduit."

It sounds just as strange from her as it had from Father McLean. He explains briefly the theory he was worked up while awaiting her revival, the idea that Moloch has effectively given up on usurping her consciousness in dreams and is instead set on taking over her body in real life.

"That's why the episodes are getting worse," he concludes, gently.

Abbie shakes her head. "Not a bad plan, for a stalky demon. He'll have one less witness to deal with and get a body at the same time. My body," she shudders.

"He won't. We will find a witch somewhere in this godforsaken town, and we will cure you, Lieutenant. I swear it."

She smiles at that. "You only call me Lieutenant when you're trying to talk me into something."

Jenny seems deeply unimpressed with this conversation.

"But you _know_ a witch," she prods. "Hello, why don't you just ask your dream girl for some help here? Did you piss her off or something?"

Ichabod stands abruptly and leaves the room, walks down to the cafeteria and purchases three bitter coffees, drinks his standing in the hallway before steeling himself to return. Abbie must explain the situation to her in his absence, because Jenny does not mention Katrina as a course of action again. 

He has not spoken to her in two years; not since Abbie began experiencing her night terrors, specifically the episodes wherein she attacked his wife in the dream-land purgatory they both inhabit.

Father McLean has spent a great deal of time researching this, and come to the conclusion that Moloch, having trapped Katrina between mirrors, initially attempted to drag Abbie into the same world, and pit the two against each other. It only made sense, as Katrina was a prisoner and an enemy of the Horseman and his ilk.

"Katrina is a warrior for the light, then," Ichabod had said, with a sinking kind of relief in his heart. It felt curiously like drowning.

"You don't need me to tell you that," McLean agreed.

"And the Lieutenant—"

"Remains one still, on the same side, in spite of her struggles. Don't make it any harder on her, son. The way I hear it, the two of you are in this thing together."

Father McLean still insists on treating him as a young man, though Ichabod recalls the birth of this country. It's very annoying.

"And am I meant to ask why I am not involved in this subconscious battle? I sleep easily enough, now that Katrina seems to understand my absence."

He cannot go to her, after all, and she no longer calls him to her side when he drifts into sleep.

McLean huffs. "What would Moloch want with you in dreams? He's saving you for the mortal world. You took out his Horseman in the first place—oh, you messed up his plans, you did that, and he's saving you for last."

It's possibly the least comforting statement he's ever heard, and it seems so much worse, now, knowing that even Abbie is not safe in the waking world either.

***

She is eventually released from the hospital and settles in to his loft, rather than her own home. Abbie's neat suburban duplex is undergoing reconstruction following a grease fire, according to the fire brigade. In fact it went up in flames around the same time Ichabod took off in the borrowed squad car to retrieve Jenny. 

He has inspected the damage at the scene—it's very odd, according to Captain Irving, that certain items (Abbie's Bible, her map of the area surrounding Trout Lake, a letter from her mother before she died, the last birthday card Corbin ever sent her) seem to have been completely incinerated and whole sections of the house untouched by the flames. There is no suspect to question, no motive to be determined. Abbie is well-loved by the community, both aware of her role in Revelation and otherwise. The fire is not being investigated as arson.

"It's almost like things just, I don't know," Irving had raised his eyebrows pointedly, "spontaneously combusted."

"Yes," Ichabod had agreed. He's become the sort of person who simply agrees when he has nothing else to say. "Very strange indeed."

Repairs are being carried out on the kitchen and living room, which took the brunt of the damage. In the meantime, Abbie is staying in his guest bedroom; he and Jenny trade off sleeping on the bed alongside her, in case Moloch should trespass through her consciousness once again. So far they have not had to deal with him, and every other Jenny sleeps on an inflatable mattress in the living room, watching television late into the night.

They develop a schedule, aside from tedious searches for an enchantress to eviscerate Moloch. They are only stop-gap measures, he is fully aware, and yet Ichabod takes some comfort in their daily routine. In the mornings he and the Mills sisters breakfast together—Jenny seems to sleep little, and often goes for an early run around his neighbourhood before they eat—and then Abbie will go back to sleep for a few hours and Ichabod will leave to purchase groceries or retrieve files from the archives.

The afternoons, they devote to more fruitless research. They have widened their options to include sorcerers and mediums, any manner of psychic, though so far all of their collective contacts turn up nothing. The two Witnesses have made friends these last few years, allies who also want to prevent the true apocalypse, and yet nothing useful has turned up. Not from the Sin Eater or the Sasquatch hunters, not from the Harlow or Oldsaw families, not from Jed, the reincarnation of Thomas Jefferson who currently operates a book store in Arizona. Corbin's files are a dearth of outdated information.

The remainder of their schedule revolves around occupying their time. Abbie and Jenny take an afternoon run or stroll through the park, or if it is too cold cajole Ichabod into attending a movie at the downtown theatre. Occasionally they go out to eat in one of the cafes or diners by the water; the change of scenery seems to benefit Abbie, though she tires easily. They watch a great deal of reality television. Jenny cannot stand drama, though will begrudgingly watch Masterpiece Theatre with him if Abbie falls asleep early in the evening. She requires a lot of sleep lately; the possession is difficult on her body, leaves her alternately restless and tired.

Ichabod has a savings account, not outrageous but sufficient for his needs, built up from four years of drawing a pay cheque from the Westchester County Police Department and living simply. Abbie is on paid leave from the department for twelve weeks, after which time she will have to return to work or arrange something else with Irving. Jenny, being a former criminal and escaped inmate, has no obligations. 

For nearly a month, they live like this. It is quite like living inside a bubble; he is sure it will burst at any moment.

According to Father McLean, Abbie had been allowed too much solitude, too much time wallowing over sleeplessness and fear. Any return to her previous 

"Existential crisis," Margaret had said, knowingly, when she appeared at Ichabod's front door with a casserole and a book to gift him. He was faintly sure she had one or two nuns waiting in her car. "It's like fertilizer for a demon sapling, makes the whole thing grow like gangbusters."

The book turned out to be about ancient Sumerian exorcism rituals, and ultimately useless for their purposes, but he does appreciate the thought.

***

Four weeks to the day after they bring Abbie back from the hospital, Jenny corners them over the breakfast table and announces her plans to return to the asylum.

Abbie snorts. "What, you miss the bleached pyjamas that much?"

Jenny, to her credit, can look just as withering and disdainful as Abbie. Ichabod recants his earlier testimony; he can see the resemblance now.

"Fuck, no," Jenny says. The younger Miss Mills has the most appalling swearing habit. "My collection. I've got more shit shoved over those ceiling tiles than you would believe. Books and crystals and hex guards—I ever tell you I spent six months in Mexico with a past life recounter?"

Ichabod has no idea what such a person could possibly be; he considers putting his head down on the table and waiting out the Mills sisters’ argument.

"The longer I leave it there, the better chance someone will find it and throw it away. And—" Jenny says this as if she is holding a literal trump card before them, which she may as well be—"there's a chick on the fourth floor who can light candles by snapping her fingers." 

"They let you have candles?" Abbie asks, sounding appalled.

"...well, no," Jenny admits. "I think you're missing the point here. What I've got up there is a witch, I'm pretty sure. The last witch in Sleepy Hollow, the way I hear it."

A stunned silence greets this announcement. Then Abbie says: "How much of a witch?"

"She's not all there, okay, but she's a sweet girl, and I think she might be the one in your prophecy. Maybe because every other person with an ounce of magic seems desperate to get away from this goddamn town. She might be our last chance; I don't think we're in a position to turn her away."

The sad fact is, Jenny is correct. The longer they wait to deal with Abbie's possession, the better than chance they will be caught off-guard by the next supernatural fiasco, and they have no way to measure how Moloch fares inside her; possibly he is weakening, or else he is very skilled at hiding himself.

Ichabod feels more than sees Abbie turn an incredulous look on him.

"We'll be needing her as well, then," he agrees.

***

Two years ago, Ichabod took Abbie to Father McLean following one of her episodes, though they were not frequent at the time and the priest was no so well known to them. He had not been particularly helpful, merely offered Abbie a brief respite and a chance at sleep, and while she was unconscious he had instructed Ichabod on three particular points for the care of his fellow witness.

He was not to attempt conversation with the demon speaking through her, or try to draw it out in pursuit of information—that could only end badly. He was not, under any circumstances, to leave her alone and unsupervised in any strange or unfamiliar buildings after dark, which simply made sense. He was not to mention her possession to Katrina in his own dreams.

"What? What bearing could that possibly have—?"

"She is being watched," Father McLean insisted. "Any conversation you have with your wife is not your own, do you understand that?"

"She is trapped between mirrors," Ichabod said, patiently. "Whatever watches her cannot communicate with the living world, if she yet lives at all." And oh, what it cost him to reach that conclusion. He was nearly starting to believe what Abbie has implied all along: that Katrina in his dreams is a manifestation of destiny, a spirit sent to guide him. 

He would regret that most of all, later.

McLean was unconvinced by his denial. "Her sleeping consciousness is, yes, but what of her waking one? Where does your wife go when you end your dreams?"

***

Sneaking in to Tarrytown Psychiatric Hospital is much more difficult the second time around, primarily because Jenny insists on attempting it in the dead of night. She suggests they split up. 

"Abbie should get my stuff out of the ceiling, you keep watch in the lobby, and I'll go bring down Red. She's used to me, she'll help us if I ask her."

It is a simple and well-thought out plan. Ichabod, realising that is it past sunset and this is indeed a strange building and Abbie is recently released from the Moloch's death-grip on her unconscious mind, refuses. 

"I will stay with Abbie, and we will collect your belongings. You will locate your witch and secure her agreement, and we will meet you presently."

Jenny only huffs, annoyed at his interference, but Abbie agrees.

"Fine," Jenny says, turning to go. "Fourth floor, the silent ward. She doesn't like loud noises."

It should not surprise him that nothing goes according to plan. They find that Jenny was not exaggerating; she does possess a great deal of material.

It occurs to him that, more than a shelter from her own inner demons, Jenny Mills fortified Tarrytown Institute as a shelter against external ones. It is not lost on him that she had the means to leave long ago, if she desired it. Perhaps she had not the reason to do so.

Regardless, the sheer volume of blessed and hexed items in the ceiling and under the floorboards astounds him—the katana sword and jar of pickled livers are a surprise, though not as much as he would like them to be—and he and Abbie make an excursion back to the car to dispose of the bulkiest items before venturing toward the quarters of their prospective ally.

They are nearing the end of the hallway when a light goes on in the stairwell, and Abbie freezes. She ducks into a windowed alcove, just out of sight of the approaching guard, but Ichabod is not so well concealed. 

He is prepared to surrender himself, but she makes a shooing motion with her hands, and he darts around the corner, stumbling slightly in the dark—really, he doesn't see why this couldn't be accomplished in day light, surely Captain Irving is enough of a believer yet that he would gift them some kind of temporary custody of this witch?—and is briefly separated from her. Worry flares in him for a moment, and he half turns when he hears his name. 

He stops.

Jenny whispers "Crane," again, angrily, and he looks for her in the dark room.

She's crouched in the corner behind the door, poised to pounce. Curled behind her, wearing a fearful expression, is the witch.

He should not be so surprised that she is his Katrina, but she is, and he is.

***

The woman in the silent ward looks nothing like the hardy, vivacious woman he remembers from that tenuous life _before_ ; nothing like even the tempting betrayer he had engaged with in the unwaking world, before he shut his mind and heart to her for the sake of his dearest friend.

Her hair is stringy and unwashed, hanging in a curtain over her face; when Jenny smoothes it back kindly and urges her to _say hello, Kat, don't even worry about it, they're here to help us out of here, we're getting you of here_ , her gaze lands in his, slightly unfocused. She seems to be looking at him from a long way off. Her skin is pale, with a sickly cast about it; the set of her mouth grim, unsmiling, wary.

She remains the loveliest creature he's ever seen.

***

Jenny looks to Katrina, whispers, "I'm guessing you know him already?" 

Katrina says nothing, only smiles wider. The glazed absence in her gaze hurts him worse than a the stab wound which took his life, the first time he died.

Somewhere in the distance he hears Abbie enter the room, and when he looks up, she is poised in the doorway, on hand on the jab and the other on her revolver. Her eyes are wide, taking in the scene, and he realises this is yet another instance where their shared experience means he will not have to explain anything. (Not that he has any of the tools to explain any of this).

Abbie has encountered Katrina before, in the dreams, and Abbie is clever. She recognizes her now.

"Fuck," she exhales finally, sounding very much like her sister.

***

"Seriously," Jenny exclaims in the car, once Abbie has explained the situation to her in halting whispers. She leans forward, says, "Crane, what the fuck is your life?"

She is seated in the rear, beside Katrina, who ignores the three of them and leans forward in her seat, cheek pressed against the window.

He has never seen her so quiet before. She is still and subdued, gazing at the world outside the glass with a kind of constrained wonder.

Nothing he can think of, none of the wild schemes and half-invented ideas he can dream up are a very good explanation for why his wife is inhabiting a physical body—what he could swear is her own physical body, though he hasn't checked, hasn't looked for the freckles on her shoulder or the birthmark on her hip—a body here in the twenty-first century, in the same asylum as his companion's deranged and thoroughly rude sister, when she should by all rights be lying cold in an unmarked grave.

Jenny hesitates, then admits, "I thought she was—uh, you know, slow, or something. Traumatized maybe.

He can hardly fault her. The woman in Katrina's body is gentle and subdued, lacking the razor-sharp edges his wife displayed. "Does she experience lucid periods?"

Katrina is now humming to herself, eyes locked on her reflection in the window glass.

Jenny looks regretful. "Yeah, this would be one of them."

***

Fitting three people comfortably into his loft was a challenge; four seems impossible. Ichabod immediately cedes his bedroom to Katrina; Jenny volunteers to drag the air mattress in and sleep on the floor alongside, which is only practical. Katrina at least seems to know Jenny by sight, calms noticeably when she's in the room. Ichabod is not in the least jealous or put out. 

"We were on the same ward when I first got committed; she was across the hallway from me."

He does mention again that none of this is possible, that she should not be, of all places, in a psychiatric facility in the early 21st century. If no one listened the first ten times he said it, they won't listen now.

"How on Earth did you know—surely she can't have been casting spells from inside that place?"

Jenny shakes her head. "Like I was the only nutbar that managed to sneak out at night. I found her in the games room, moving chesspieces around the board with her fucking brain." She glances at Katrina in the corner, who is calmly eating the toast Abbie has prepared for her. "I've seen some weird shit, Crane, but this takes the cake."

"And she spoke to you?"

Jenny nods. She used to. Stopped a couple years ago."

"How long has she been in that asylum?"

A shrug. "Fuck if I know. Longer than me."

He does not doubt there is some kind of magic in that, as well.

***

This leaves him with the sofa, far too short for his frame to stretch out on comfortably. Luckily, he had no serious intentions of sleeping. Around six in the morning, just as the sun is beginning to rise, casting silhouettes over the neighbouring buildings and flooding the room in light, Ichabod drifts off. Katrina is waiting for him in the clearing, in the woods, in his dreams.

"Hello," she says. Ah, no dire protestations of the fate of the world tonight, no recriminations for his prolonged absence. No, she offers him only _hello_.

Ichabod realises he is angry after he's already begun a reply, the tenor of his own voice surprising him.

"You," he starts, and stops. Her, always her. He sucks in a breath and starts again. "You-Katrina, my darling, are sleeping in the next room over, presently, and you don't recognize me at all." That wasn't quite true. The lady Jenny called Kat had smiled silently and held his hand as he helped her over the window ledge, hadn't objected to being carried in his arms across the muddy fields surrounding the asylum.

"What?" she squawks, unladylike as ever. 

He cannot help the joy that creeps into his voice, he can scarcely believe it is true. "You heard me. In my bed in the future, without me, you are sleeping the sleep of the recently rescued. What do you have to say for yourself?"

"You found me," she exhales. "You did, you truly did find me? You're certain?"

As if he wouldn't recognize her. "Katrina, explain yourself plainly, I beg of you. How did you survive? How did you ever cheat death?"

"I never did." She sucks in a deep breath. 

"What?" His turn now.

"A body can only last so long," she says with a weak smile. He represses the urge to take her head in his hands and hold it to his chest, cradle her close. "Short of death, it seemed practical to split my consciousness from my physical form, for preservation's sake." 

"But you have awareness. You recognized me, I swear you did." 

She shakes her head. "Some things remain, but I—I do not cross into that form. If ever I had the power to go back, it's gone from me now." 

"And you could assume no other one?"

As soon as he speaks the words, he wishes he had not. She is angry, cheeks colouring red. His fire-haired girl.

"I am Katrina Crane." She takes his hand in her own, holding it close to her chest; even in the dream world, her heart beats. "Sister of the Radiant Heart, High Witch, and devoted wife to Ichabod, Witness of the apocalypse. I have no desire to become anyone else, and that is what will become of me if I intercept another form."

"Then tell me. Tell me how to get you back in your body. What must I do?"

Katrina's expression clouds. She steps a little distance away and snapped her fingers once, a quick click sound that resonates sharper than it should. A flame lights over her fingertips, dancing close but not singeing.

"Now you," she instructs him.

He watches her a moment, then decides not to protest. He snaps his fingers and tries not to be disappointed when nothing happens.

"You have no magic," she says, sadly. "If ever it would show itself, now would be the place and the time. I'd expected as much. I'm so sorry, Ichabod."

"Sorry?"

"There is nothing you can do. I will wake fully when the demon lets me free, if ever it will."

The demon that holds Abbie captive in her night-terrors now holds Katrina dumb and barely-alive in the physical world. He cannot solve the first problem without Katrina's assistance; she cannot help him in reality until the very same demon is vanquished. A complete loop of hopelessness, then.

***

He wakes abruptly in the early morning, feeling neither refreshed nor really awake. He waits at the kitchen table for the rest of the house to rise.

If Jenny is surprised to find him there, in flannel pants and short sleeves (it had taken Abbie weeks to persuade him that being seen in sleeping attire was not indecent—now he wondered how he ever dozed comfortably in anything else), then she does not show it.

"So," she says, pouring her own bowl of Cheerios. "How'd your night go?"

He had woken to find Abbie sleeping peaceably, curled on her side, brow unfurrowed. Despite his lapse in consciousness, the demon had not attacked her in the night.

"Abbie is still asleep, and will rest a while longer. And your evening?"

She shakes her head. "Nothing to report. Kat's still asleep. She's kind of worn out, I think. It's not every day time traveller husband breaks you out of a mental hospital."

 He has nothing kind to say to that, merely says, "You misunderstand the circumstances, pray do not make light of them."

"I'm not misunderstanding anything. You love both of your girls, huh?"

Ichabod looks up at her, instantly outraged. "You insinuate—"

"I'm not saying anything, man. You look at your lady and you look at my sister and it's a different kind of look, don't misunderstand me, but it's a _look_. You want to protect both of them and sulking around means you're doing a shitty job of it, and it's making you miserable. Jesus, you're miserable to be around."

"I have spent the last four years in service to a cause greater than my own happiness."

Jenny says, "And by my count, you've got another two and a half years to go. Not just you, but Abbie and you, and she and I were a package deal long before you popped out of the history books."

He has nothing to say to that, and resolves to stare at his cereal until she abandons this train of thought. After a long moment she speaks again, her voice softer.

"The way I see it, if you can get a little happiness out of this apocalypse deal, you might as well enjoy it."

He nods. "Yes, well, that might prove to be easier said than done while my dearest friend remains in the clutches of a monster and my wife knows me not at all."

"Well, have you tried kissing her yet?" 

"This is not a fairy story, Miss Mills."

Silence. 

"Didn't work, huh? Bad luck."

"Indeed."

**Author's Note:**

> Help help I don't know how I got here, I'm trapped on the Good Ship Ichatrina and there's nobody else here except me and Orlando Jones. 
> 
> One more part to follow.


End file.
